


Matrimony

by casstayinmyass



Category: Let Me Make You a Martyr (2016)
Genre: A Hot Asshole, Attraction, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Complete, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Floor Sex, Gun Violence, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Pope Is An Asshole, Pre-Canon, Resolved Sexual Tension, Rough Kissing, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Tension, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Smoking, Vaginal Sex, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:22:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22231741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casstayinmyass/pseuds/casstayinmyass
Summary: You and a skilled hitman are forced to work together to take out a mutual ‘friend’ through teamwork. But together is the opposite of how Pope works, and he already despises you.
Relationships: Marilyn Manson/Original Female Character(s), Marilyn Manson/Reader, Pope/Reader, Pope/You
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

Pope barely lets the guy finish speaking—he’s already rejected the terms, regardless of the pay. 

“I haven’t even told you the haul yet,” the man who had come to him, Jack Redman, chuckles. Pope does not share his amusement, which he makes clear through a scathing glare. Pope’s glares had the ability to convey a particular type of anger, so intensely that nobody usually challenged him any further… but it meant Redman’s ass if he returned without a yes. 

The two were sitting in Pope’s cabin, devoid mostly of decoration, only the necessities surrounding them. The kitchen table they sat at was low, homemade out of rain-bleached wood from around the area. On their plates, the two had almost finished cuts of red deer meat Pope had offered. It was rare enough for Redman to pick at it, and Pope to devour it.

The propositioner sighs. “She’s a peach. Trust me. Easy on the eyes, all that.”

Despite the bloody mess on his plate, Pope cuts his food with the manners of a King, lifting his fork to his mouth delicately. “She’s a drug runner. I don’t work with drug runners, I kill drug runners.” He has an underlying southern drawl to his voice, a false comfort that eases his targets. Fear always spoiled the hit, just like hunting. 

Redman pushes his plate away in exasperation. “She’s a drug runner who has _potential_. She wants to help you. This could be an opportunity to–“

“I work alone. That’s final.” Pope gets up from the kitchen table, ending the conversation. Redman shakes his head, chasing after the tall, bullheaded hitman. 

“Fuckin’… stubborn piece of shit… listen, Pope!” 

“I ain’t listening to anything you have to say,” Pope turns, face calm and stern. “I’m done listening. And you’re done talking.” Redman eyes Pope’s rack of guns which he is standing in front of, and swallows.

“Look. My boss is prepared to give you a big fucking bag of dough for this.” 

“How big is fucking big?” Pope asks, taking a pistol off the rack and beginning to clean it. Redman keeps his eyes on the weapon warily.

“It’s a lot, man. At least a million dollars is in this for you if you just test the waters, and finish the job.”

Pope purses his lips. “Half for me, half for this slut I’m supposed to carry around?” 

“Each,” Redman replies. Pope sets the gun down, and the rag with it. He takes his glasses off, polishes them with his shirt, then puts them back on.

“Three days. That’s all it’ll take. We’ll see what happens.”

—

You tuck your gun in your back pocket. You’d never had any real reason to use it thus far, since your job, while dangerous, thankfully never got that physical.

Drug dealing seemed a natural path for you to take. Your parents had both been in the business of the black market, your mother an illegal arms dealer and your father working for your mother. Growing up in a family with a “small business”, it had led you to a code of morals that are currently getting in the way.

Morals that say Daegland Pierce, notorious dealer, needs to die.

Since you and your boss both knew you couldn’t carry it out alone, you had been eager to find someone who could carry out the job with you. Your boss got to talking, and as it turns out, there’s some kind of agreement that’s been made. You’re in the dark about the whole thing with him, but all you really need to know is your role in all of it. 

“His name’s Pope.” 

“Any file on him?” you ask, crossing your arms. Lane swirls his drink around. 

“There’s no file for this guy anywhere. He just… is.”

“How do you know what kind of killer he is?”

“Word of mouth. Everybody knows Pope, and nobody knows him.”

“I’m one of the nobodies, would you mind giving me a little more insight, so I know the guy I’m going to be working with?”

Lane shakes his head. “Ask him yourself. You’re meeting him at the rendezvous point, by Exit 19 on the Tollcross back road. Nothing but farmland out there, ‘til you reach the woods Pierce has shacked up in.”

“These the coordinates?” you ask, tapping a map that had been placed in front of you.

"Wrapped up inside. Quit asking questions, will ya? Go do the job, don’t run your mouth at this guy or he’ll shoot it off, and come back richer for the experience.” You go to get up, but Lane stops you. “(y/n). I know you think you’re real tough, kay? You ain’t shit compared to this guy. He’ll rip your spleen out if you get on his bad side. So just lay low, do you gotta do, and don’t piss him off.”

“What makes you think I would?” you ask. Lane sighs, shaking his head.

“There’s gonna be two corpses out there by Friday, I swear to god.”

–

You drive a crappy throwaway VW bug up a grassy back road, studying the map closely. There’s an x marked where you’re supposed to meet Pope, and you’re coming up on it now. You toss the map to the passenger seat, and crane your neck to see from the sunken seat. There’s a black car up ahead, with a man leaning against it.

You park the bug, grab the map, and toss a match in, burning the thing out. You walk up to him, and take a look as you approach. He’s tall, got glasses, and has cropped black hair. He’s got a few tattoos, maybe more, you notice as he lifts a cigarette up, but most are covered by long black sleeves. How he could wear long sleeves in this heat is beyond you, but you’re not here to question his attire. He’s actually pretty well dressed, if you’d go so far as to admit it. He’s not bad looking either, for a man in his early to mid forties.

The bug blows up behind you, and you smirk.

“(y/n),” you say, sticking out your hand. His dark eyes move over to you boredly, taking you in with a vertical sweep. He finally puts his cigarette between his lips, which are curiously dainty, and shakes your hand. Whatever elegance his features hold are balanced out by the roughness of his hands– his skin is like leather, and his nails are chipped and dirty.

“You know who I am,” he says simply, in a buried genteel southern accent.

You take a spot next to him, leaning against the car as well. He glances sideways at you, but doesn’t say anything. He just smokes in silence. You wonder if it’ll be like one of those miraculous bonding moments, where he’d offer you a drag, and it would be like some unspoken code of respect had passed between you two.

You lose hope for that as Pope continues to do his best to ignore you. You eventually clear your throat.

“So. I’ve got a plan.”

“No. I’ve got a plan. This ain’t your show, kid.”

You frown. “Don’t call me kid.”

“Okay, sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me sweetheart!”

“What do you want me to call you then? Cause I’ve got a few ideas.”

You scoff. _What a fucking asshole!_ Still, your boss’ warning is present in your mind, so you shut your mouth, and get in the car. Pope drops his butt, snuffs it out carefully with his shoe, and gets in the driver’s side.

“I heard we’re going to be taking the cabin next to his,” you bring up. “Must be nice to live out in the woods. Plus, I bet the asshole’s place is nice and furnished. He’s loaded to hell.” You purse your lips. “Is it a long drive to the cabin?”

Pope doesn’t answer. Instead, he turns up the stereo, which is just finishing up Johnny B Goode. Then, an old country song that sounds like a bloodhound wailing to the tune of a two string banjo comes on. It’s got some lyrics about preaching the gospel, and you sigh, resting your head against the window.

“This is fucking terrible.”

Pope looks ahead. “Mhm.”

“You seem like a rock kind of guy, not this.”

“‘Mhm.”

“Not even classic rock?”

“Mmm.”

With a huff, you turn to look out the window and let the grumpy older hitman, who apparently only knew how to communiticate by varying grunts, enjoy his lovesick religious whining on the radio.

Eventually, you make it down a dirt path, leaves and branches hitting the sides of the car.

“Welcome home,” Pope says, pulling up at the cabin the two of you would be staying at. You get out, looking around. It’s pretty remote.

“Where’s his place?”

“Just down the way a little,” Pope replies, unloading some things from the car, “Before you ask, no, we are not going over right now. We’re setting our rooms up– far away from one another– and settling in for the night.”

“And lemme guess, you’re gonna pour some whiskey sour and spin 'Solitary Man’ on vinyl while scraping your boots on the porch?”

He can’t even be bothered enough to muster up a glare. He simply gives you a bored look through those wire rimmed glasses, and walks toward the house. You look around, and when you think you hear a cracked twig, follow him quickly.

—

Pope sets a lantern on the table, and pushes you your plate of food.

“Thank you,” you say. It was genuinely nice of him to prepare food for the both of you, something you hadn’t expected him to do.

“Uh huh.” You eat in silence for a bit, the crickets outside the window your only accompaniment to dinner. It’s a nice cabin, in a pretty nice little thicket of forest. You can certainly see the appeal of living out here– especially as someone in Pierce’s line of work.

Pope finally speaks. “So what kind of drugs do you sell?”

“Why? You interested?” You already know the answer, but so far, it’s been fun teasing him. He tents his fingers.

“I don’t fuck with drugs. They dull the wits, and I need those to not die.”

“Depends on the drug,” you grin. He miraculously cracks a small smile, and you go on. “Just homegrown shit. I don’t bother with trying to sell party drugs. That scene just gets the cops all over your business.” Pope nods. “You ever get cops on you?”

He cocks his head. “Around here? The three good, upstanding police officers who actually care enough to know what’s going on beneath their noses are on my payroll. Any marshals or anything are easily deterred.”

“You just use your charm and good looks?”

“Believe it or not, I’m pretty good with people,” he says. You scoff.

“That’s a good one.”

He spends a long time staring at you. You can feel his gaze on you as you eat, and it prickles your skin. You can’t tell if you like it or not. You wonder if you should say something else. Eventually, he gets up, taking his plate to the cabin’s quaint kitchen. You missed your chance.

He cleans his plate, and stops by the stairs. “Why’d you want to come out here to put two people on a one man job?”

“I wanted to see it get done. I guess I… didn’t trust you.”

“Do you now?”

“What?”

He looks at you over his glasses. “Do you trust me now?”

You sit forward. “I don’t trust anyone but myself.”

He nods. “You don’t trust me cause you haven’t seen me do what I do.”

You chew on your bottom lip. You hadn’t gotten the chance to tell him your plan, and by all accounts, you know he’s not going to like it. These three days may be more difficult than you thought.

After slowly finishing the rest of your dinner, you head upstairs to find the remaining bedroom. As you’re passing the doors, you catch a glimpse of one partially open. Inside, Pope is lying awake, staring up at the ceiling. You quickly hurry past, hoping he didn’t see you, and find the empty bedroom at the end of the hall. Finding it furnished with a few old blankets, you toss a pillow down. You slip out of your clothes to your bra and panties, and get into bed.

You don’t know what to make of the man in the other room. Until you do, you’d better keep him at arm’s length. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tensions rise with Pope, but you both have a common goal. Or, you believe it to be common.

You wake to the sound of your alarm. _5:30 am._

You get out of bed, and pull on your jogging clothes. A run should clear your head. On the way down, you sneak one more look into Pope’s bedroom. You can’t see much through the dark, but the bed looks empty. He must be downstairs skulking around somewhere, unless he enjoys a nice refreshing jog before the sun comes up… which you doubt. 

Out on the path, the sun starts to rise through the pine trees. You jog along the road that you arrived on, smart enough not to jog in the direction of Pierce’s cabin alone. Slipping your earbuds in, you listen to Marilyn Manson’s Odds of Even, the thunk of the beat in time with your steps. 

You’re not thinking about Pope that way. You’re just interested in him. Interested in the idea of him. He’s an interesting man! Who… you’re interested in. 

So, you’ve got feelings for Pope.

Not feelings, per say, but… an intrigue. And there’s definitely a physical attraction there, though you can’t tell if he returns it. Probably not. Sex and romance probably weren’t even blips on his radar. All he probably thinks about is killing people, disposing of their corpses swiftly and without hassle, and jacking off when and if he feels lonely.

You bite your lip. _Damn, that’s hot to imagine_. Why do you always fall for people who either hate you, want to kill you, or just plain aren’t nice? 

If you even mess up a little on this hit though, he’ll kill you. Literally. He will not hesitate to take you out as well if you fuck up. But you’re not going to fuck up. You may not be a hitman, but you deal with creeps like Daegland Pierce all the time in your job. You know how they think, and that’s an advantage Pope doesn’t have.

You return to the cabin, breathing heavily. A thin sheen of sweat covers you, and you look around. Isn’t there a river somewhere near here?

You approach the rushing brook, grateful for the already cool mist rising from it. You peel off your top and bra, and do the same for your shorts and panties. There’s no one out here in the brush, so you don’t have to worry about that.

You toss your stuff on a nearby log, and get into the stream. _Oh yeah. Yeah. That’s nice._ You float for a moment, staring up at the sky and listening to the birds. Then you hear another noise. A much closer noise.

You get your ears out of the water, and listen… then you nearly drown in fear as you hear a loud thwack right behind you. Whipping around, you turn to see–

“Holy shit!” you scream.

“Morning,” Pope says. He brings an axe down on another piece of wood.

“I’m…! Oh my god, you didn’t say anything, you–”

“Well,” he pushes up his glasses, “I figured I wouldn’t bother you in your morning activities, and you won’t bother me in mine.” He gestures to you with the handle of his axe. “You do have some pretty tits, though.”

“Jesus fuck,” you whisper, covering your chest. “Don’t… look!” Pope shrugs, and goes back to splitting wood. “Why are you even out here?!” you demand, trying to swim back to the shore inconspicuously. 

“I’m sorry, is this restricted land? Do I require a fuckin’ permit?”

“You– just, what are you doing?!”

“It’s cold at night here,” he mutters, “And any sensible person would seek warmth during the dark hours.”

“Excuse me?!”

“You’re excused, you know I don’t mean whoring around with you.”

“Right. If I came into your bedroom at night, opened up my bra and sat on the edge of your bed, you’d tell me to fuck off?”

Pope smirks. “Aww. Princess doesn’t like the thought of that, does she?” You gasp, crossing your arms. You stop crossing your arms when it’s apparent that just makes your boobs look even better. “Look, kid. Unlike you, I didn’t come out here to screw around. I came here to kill a motherfucker, and get paid. That’s what I do, that’s what I intend to do.”

It’s futile arguing with him, and any headway you made tolerating each other last night at dinner (however small) had now been wiped clean. You’d show your worth on your own– and you’ve got nothing to prove. Not much, anyway. There is zero part of you that wants any validation from Pope at all. Or praise. Or a… a “good girl.” A “good… good little girl… yeah, babygirl, just like that…”

_Shit._

—

“Do not make one wrong step. He can’t know we’re here.”

You follow closely behind Pope, trying to get his attention.

“Hey. _Hey!_ Why are we doing this now? Why don’t we wait until–?”

“You have to get to know everything about a person’s environment before you kill them. You need to know any possible traps they’ve set up, any kind of security or backup they’ve hid up their ass.”

“B–”

“Stop speaking, no speaking. Shh. For once, shhh.” He holds up a hand, then when he’s sure the coast is clear, he beckons. “Follow me.”

You do. He points to the other side of the house, but you’re already ahead of him, back to the painted wooden panels. It’s a better looking cabin than yours, obviously furnished and newly renovated with millions of dollars in dope cash that should’ve gone to home growers like the business you work for.

You snake around the back of the house, and check the window. It’s cracked open an inch. Looking around, you push it open a bit farther, and carefully, ever so silently, you climb in. Pope is already in the house, in the living room. He’s got his back pressed to the wall, and his head tilted to look up the stairs.

You’re about to turn to check the kitchen, when you feel something in your back. You turn slowly, preparing to meet the barrel of a gun and your untimely demise, but you just find the end of a dirty wooden spoon in a soapy pot.

“Oh,” you breathe, putting a hand on your chest. You hear a gun cock at the back of your head.

“What the fuck you doing in my house?” You look behind you, and maneuver around. It’s him. It’s Daeg. And he’s in his bathrobe.

“Hi!” you suddenly say, the first thing popping into your head the option you’re going with. “You must be the neighbor!”

“What?” Pierce growls.

You wave to Pope, who’s staring at you with some mix of contempt and confusion. “Honey, come here!”

“What the…?” Pierce mutters, and points the gun at Pope as he reluctantly walks over to join you. “Who are you people?!" 

"We just moved into the cabin next to yours! We’re Mr. and Mrs… Warner!” You pick a name off the top of your head. You grab Pope’s hand, and the death grip you get back tells you he’s not in support of this tactic. But, there’s no going back now.

“Yeah,” he grumbles, “This is my wife. Ain’t she a sweet little piece of ass?”

You give a giggle for good measure, tightening your grip on his hand in warning, and this guy looks so utterly dumbfounded, it’s hard not to laugh.

“I’m gonna ask you this again, you stupid shits. What the FUCK are you doing in my HOUSE?!”

“Looking for sugar,” you say.

Pope falls into his role. “Yeah. My wife here was… baking.”

“I tried to tell him he gets enough sugar at home, but he wouldn’t listen, the scoundrel!” You slap him lightly on the arm.

“Well. Just can’t get enough of the girl. But that river flows both ways, don’t it?”

You shudder slightly, but keep your smile up. Then it hits you. _Ingredients… baking!_ You know just how you can get put of here without an ass full of this guy’s buckshot!

“Now, the reason we found your place, was…” you move in a little closer to Pierce, “I was looking for a certain kind of ingredient. If you know what I mean.”

The man’s demeanor changes. He looks around, tucks his gun. “How do y'all know about that?”

You wink. “I know lots of things.”

“Now, sweetheart.” Pope tugs you back, a little too roughly. “Remember to be modest. At least for my sake.” His hand travels down to your ass, and you bite your lip.

“Of course, honey. Of course.”

_Is he getting a little too into his role?_

—

You both can’t believe you were able to make nice with Pierce long enough to get out of his house. It was a life-saving idea, but it also posed a problem. The two of you had been invited back for dinner the next night, to supposedly buy some of his ‘stock’.

“It’s perfect! That’s when we kill him!” you hiss, as Pope walks ahead of you through the bramble.

“The tone of this whole thing is fucked up. It’s not right. This isn’t how things work.”

“What, not used to having a fake wife along for the hit? A little imagination can save your life.”

“Don’t talk to me about life,” he mutters, “I’m ready to end yours.”

“Yeah. Fine. Threaten to kill me.”

“Oh, I’m not just threatening.”

“At least we didn’t get shot to bits by the most notorious drug dealer in the American midwest.”

“I do things my way,” he replies calmly, “I don’t need a little brat like you telling me how it’s gonna be.” You ball your fists and beat against a tree. _He’s infuriating!_

“Will you at least show me how to cut the wood you were chopping this morning? You’re right, we should stock up.” He looks back at you, that same indifferent expression back on his face.

“You chose to come out here and bother me. Make yourself scarce, or I swear to God or whatever the fuck, I’ll drive you out to the middle of the woods and leave you for the wolves.”

With that, he walks inside, screen door banging.

You sit down on a log by the car. After a minute, you get up, start the car with the keys on the seat, and turn the radio up.

More honkey tonk wailing. _Whatever._ Maybe country was good for the soul, and all that.

You lay down on the log, and watch the forest flora sway around you as Hank Williams croons through the open air.

—

You open your eyes. It’s dark out.

The car radio is still going, and you’re not sure quite what time it is.

You hear footsteps behind you, and look up to see Pope walking over to the car. You sigh, rubbing your eyes and waiting for his complaints. “Sorry,” you murmur, “I should’ve turned it off before I–”

“It’s fine,” he cuts you off curtly, and you give up trying to explain yourself, waiting for him to disappear again. This was such a mistake. Coming out here with him, wanting to be a part of this. You wanted to see the job done, sure, but maybe you are out of your depth. Christ, the guy is an expert sharpshooter, with the lack of mercy of a navy seal and the personality of a hermit. It’s time to give up.

You look up again when you don’t hear the door close. He pauses, walks over to you, and sits down. He takes his cigarettes out of his shirt pocket, puts one in his mouth, and lights it. He tilts his head up to look at the stars, and takes his glasses off, setting them down beside him.

“C'mere,” he whispers. You sit up, frowning, and follow his line of sight. You inch closer to him in confusion, and settle in next to him to watch the sky too. He takes another drag of his cigarette, the embers glowing in the low light. You find the scent of him, along with his presence out here, comforting.

The night bugs grow in volume around you, and soon, you begin to hear coyotes in the distance.

“They’re beautiful,” you murmur. He hums.

“They’re dangerous.”

“Like someone else I know,” you whisper. If he hears you, he doesn’t let on. He just exhales smoke toward the sky, and listens to the noises of the night. His voice, low and gravelly, rises above the sounds.

“You ever heard of a Wendigo, kid?”

“No,” you tell him.

“It’s an old legend my grandfather told me. He says there are skinwalkers out here in the forest. They can shapeshift, take the form of whatever they want. Animals, people. Strangely odd. Just a little too odd to be considered human.”

“You think those coyotes are skinwalkers?” you ask softly. 

“Nah. The only things here pretending to be something they’re not are you, and me." 

—

You wake up in bed, not quite certain how you got there. It’s still nighttime… you don’t know exactly what time it is, but you don’t want to reach for your phone. You stare out the window for a minute, and frown. The scenery outside doesn’t look quite right, like it’s too foggy to see. 

There’s a slight creak in one of the floorboards, and you see a shadow eclipse the dim lantern light from the hallway.

You roll over in bed, and see Pope standing by the door. He hasn’t got his glasses on, and his hair looks a little messed up, as if he’s been sleeping.

"What is it?” you mumble, trying to sit up, “Something with Pierce? Did he… is everything okay?” Confusion fills you as he walks toward you, but it’s replaced by desire with every step closer he takes. He looks like he’s been kept awake by something. “Pope?”

“Shh.” He sits down, making an indent in the comforter. “I want you, sweetheart.”

You breathe out, and after a second, you lean forward slowly. He meets you halfway, reinforcing the kiss, and you moan softly against his lips. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, and he lays you down, resuming the kissing once he’s got you against the pillows. “Couldn’t get you outta my mind,” he whispers, “Couldn’t get this… outta my head.”

“This feels strange,” you murmur, “You hate me.”

He doesn’t respond, just moves a hand down beneath the covers to stroke between your legs. An exhaled prayer of his name falls from your lips, and he presses a kiss to your chest, tongue swiping out every so slightly. You look down at him again, and reach out, starting to unbutton his shirt, all the way down. With each button, more tattoos are revealed, even though they appear blurry to you, as if your mind is trying to fill them in for you. Must be the dark.

“You’re so fucking sexy,” he whispers, and pushes your panties aside.

“Please,” you beg.

“Let me give you what you need, baby girl. That’s it.” He looks into your eyes with his own dark orbs. “Trust me now?”

Your chest rises and falls quicker as he adds another finger, rolling your clit with his thumb as he pumps in and out. He’s making soft noises as he does, grinding his erection into your thigh on the bed. You start to gasp as you feel your orgasm coming on.

“I’m… P… Pope, oh god, I’m… c-c–”

He strokes you just right with those rough fingers, and just as you come undone, your eyes open.

Pope is gone. You’re alone, in bed. You stare at the headboard, realizing you’re on your stomach. _Shit, you’ve been grinding into the mattress._ You regain a little more consciousness, the events of your dream all fresh in your mind.

Giving a disoriented moan, you flip over, lying on your back. Your hips wiggle, and you tug down your panties, dipping your own fingers into your soaking wet heat. You didn’t think he had this kind of effect on you.

You moan to yourself softly as you quickly curl your fingers in a hurried motion, hips arching slightly. _Yeah… yeah, like that_. You gasp, and finally cum hard thinking of Pope on top of you like that, kissing you, touching your body, sending you over the edge.

You come down to earth, head spinning in the cold, dark bedroom. You can hear soft snores from the other room. He must have brought you upstairs and put you in your bed before turning in. If any of that outside was real. What if that was part of the dream?

 _No._ You can still smell the faint scent of Pope’s lingering cigarette smoke on your jacket, which is still on. You shake your head, taking it off and tossing it on a chair across the room. All you need is a good night’s rest.


	3. Chapter 3

“Morning,” you say, avoiding his eye contact. Pope gives you a curious look at the sudden shyness. 

“Hey." 

Ever the man of few words, he gets to cooking breakfast. You watch him, wondering how you’re going to keep it together tonight. Surely, this is when Pope would take the opportunity to kill Pierce. But it was a matter of keeping your cool until then…

You’ll be fine. You were the one who saved face yesterday. Pope is gonna end this guy, and you’ll be back to your own lives, never to work alongside one another again. This evening would be terrifying and exciting, and you find yourself fantasizing what it’ll feel like when Pierce is finally dead. Just keep picturing that. Not Pope, from your dream last night. 

Still. You shouldn’t make things weird. 

“Sleep well?” you ask. 

“No. No surprise there.” 

You nod slowly, then finally get the courage to quit beating around the bush. “What did you mean last night? When you said we were both pretending to be something we’re not?” 

He wipes his hands on a towel, and tosses it in the sink. “What did you think I meant?” 

“Come on,” you sigh, “This isn’t a game.” He looks back at you over those glasses. 

“Isn’t it?”

—

Around late afternoon, you’re in the bedroom, going over some things for tonight. You’ve got two guns, which you intend to load both of, just in case Pope needs backup. You get up, and check your appearance in the mirror. Just unsuspecting enough to be a housewife, with enough room under your hoodie to hide your mini arsenal. 

You pick up one of the guns from the bed, and walk to his room. He’s not there– probably downstairs.

"Hey. Do you have any more bullets?”

No answer. 

You walk down the steps, tucking one of the guns into your back pocket. You head outside. Maybe he’s skinning some dead animal or something weird like that. The man likes blood far too much. 

“Hey! Pope!” you call out, but still no answer. “I know I should’ve brought my ammo, but… I don’t fucking know where it is.” Then it dawns on you. The bastard left to do the job without you!

_Infuriating! Asshole! Shithead!_

You storm through the woods, the idea of pulling your gun on Pope on sight very present in your mind, and finally make it to the house. Still no sign of anyone.

“Swear to god, you’d better not be–” you mutter, and rush in. The two men are sitting, facing each other. You walk in, and Pierce lifts his chin.

“Thought you said the girl was sick." 

"I got better,” you growl.

“Did you?” Pope asks, voice low and warning. “Mm, I don’t know. I think you’d better get home, get back into bed, sweetheart. Don’t want you to deteriorate… or worse.” He gives you a pointed look. 

“And pass up an evening like this? Honey. You know me better than that.” You put on a big smile, and sit down beside him. 

“Yeah. Well, let’s get on with the sale.” Pierce sighs. “See, I… I came out here to take a break. Y'know, sit back, enjoy the money. Get away for a while, lay low.” You feel your blood rising. Guys like Pierce shouldn’t get to _enjoy_ their money, the money they’ve stolen from good, clean dealers. 

“You were in trouble with the cops,” you say, “Your operation was gonna fold if you didn’t let things cool off.” Pope swats you inconspicuously.

“What did you say?” Pierce mutters. 

“Well, we’ve been in the same boat for possession!” you quickly cover. “We know how it is. We came out here to… to do the same." 

"You two fuckin’ dealers?” He narrows his eyes.

“No.” Pope calmly diffuses the tension in the room. “We’re just a married couple, come to enjoy life in the off the grid for a while.” He lies through his teeth. “With some of your shit.”

You smile, taking Pope’s arm. “Wake and bake.”

“Right,” Pierce says. “I just… I’ve normally got my boys with me, when I handle transactions.”

“We understand that,” Pope says, nodding slowly, “And we respect that. If you don’t want to sell…”

“Nah, nah. It just rubs me the wrong way.”

“What does?” Pope’s tone is amused. He knows how in control of the situation he really is. You on the other hand, are wary of Pierce’s suspicion. He’s as sharp as the two of you, and you know it.

“Two of you, moving in right when I do. Snooping through my motherfucking house. I don’t know.”

“Neighbors can be nosy,” you smile.

“Mhm,” Pope nods. 

“I just wanna ask you a few questions before I feel comfortable enough selling to you.” 

“That’s fine,” Pope opens his hands, leaning back. “We got the time.” 

“What do you do?”

“I’m a carpenter.” 

“He’s a singer,” you say at the same time. Pope looks at you, jaw visibly clenching. You clear your throat. “I mean… he decided carpentry wasn’t fulfilling enough for him. Pursued music instead.” 

“And what does that make you, then?” Pierce chuckles. 

“His manager,” you say.

“Groupie,” Pope speaks at the same time. He gives a little self satisfied smile, and you have to fight not to pinch him. You just smile sweetly at the dealer across from you. 

“Depends on who you ask, really.”

“Where you two from?”

“We just moved into the other cabin,” you say, “We told you that.”

“I mean, where you originally from?”

“Does that matter?” you huff. 

“Does to me.”

“Ohio,” Pope steps in with a clean backstory, “We met and got married there.”

“How’d you two meet, huh?” 

“We got to talking. Didn’t wanna stop talking.” 

“Fuckin’ cute,” Pierce mutters, “Fine, that checks out. What about you? You ain’t said much, little lady.” 

“Well, after we got married, we… sort of came to the conclusion that we wanted something away from people. This place was perfect.” Your eyes drift to Pope, and you feel something click into place inside you. “Perfect for both of us.” 

“Mm. Perfect,” Pierce nods. “You sound like a couple who knows what they want. I’m very much the same way. In fact…” he takes out a stack of a few Polaroids, and hands them to you. “When I don’t get my way… my boys don’t carry something out properly, or someone cheats me… you could say things get a little messy.” You look down at the photos as he keeps talking, heart rate picking up. Each Polaroid is a close up of a fresh corpse, face smashed in, bullet holes leaving nothing behind. The pictures are gruesome; you have to hide your disgust. “Look. Mr. and Mrs. Warner. You seem like nice people.” Your eyes move down as you notice his hand reaching underneath the couch cushion. “The kinda shitty nice people I don’t sell to, cause I know they ain’t looking for no god damn dope." 

It all happens too fast. You see him reach, so you take out the gun from your back pocket, aim it at his forehead, and pull the trigger. It clicks. Pope watches, scrutinizing your every move, and you wonder why he’s not stepping in. 

"H-he–” you stutter, but Pope just lifts his chin, folds his fingers, and watches. Pierce goes for his weapon hidden in the couch, and you lurch forward, smashing the butt of the gun into the man’s face to hinder him. Pope nods slightly, but you don’t notice, as you get on top of him and keep beating him with the pistol.

“Kill him.”

“You fucking kill him!” you scream, digging your nails into the guy’s neck.

“Kill him, now.”

“Po–”

“Do it.”

You look down, but Pierce takes your moment of distraction to throw you off him. A sharp pain spreads through your rib cage, but you don’t have time to check it. Pierce is blinded now by the blood leaking into and out of his eyes, but he’s crawling for where he knows the cabinet of guns is. Pope stands up, and aims. He shoots Pierce in both legs, blood exploding onto you and the walls, and finally, he tosses the gun. Without thinking, you catch it, aim it, and blow the dealer’s head to pieces.

You drop the gun, and stare down at him. You should be shaking. You should be ready to throw up, with all the carnage around you. Pope watches you. You look up at him. “That felt good.” He nods again, and you suddenly feel all your rage come back. “You _asshole!_ Why didn’t you shoot him when you realized my gun wasn’t loaded?! He was a clear shot. You just sat there! I thought you were supposed to be some expert hitman!” Pierce’s cell rings on the table, and without looking back, Pope shoots it to pieces. You stop, stunned, and he advances on you. “Now wait just a minute. You came over h–”

He takes you by the shoulders. “If I wanted to kill the man myself, I would have pulled the trigger the minute I walked through the fuckin’ door.”

He’s too close to be considered friendly (or friendly rivalry) and you look down to his chest. 

“Then… why didn’t you?” you breathe. 

He squeezes your shoulders, and in a burst of either fury or passion, kisses you rough. He pulls away, almost in surprise, then his eyes darken again as you initiate another kiss. You fall back, slipping on the bloody hardwood, and Pope falls on top of you. In seconds his fingers are in your clothes, ripping fabric here and popping buttons where they won’t cooperate. Blood continues to slip between you as he reaches down to pull your shorts off, then your panties. 

“Yeah,” you groan, and he bites your stomach, moving downward. You moan even louder when his lips graze your heat, and his tongue sweeps out, and inside.

“This is what you want?” he asks, ripping your panties. 

You can’t do anything but moan in reply, desperate to feel him inside of you. He moves up, and undoes his pants. The both of you roll over so that you’re on top, and he brings your face down to his to kiss you again. Through the kiss, you take over his pursuit in opening up his pants, and get him out. He groans into your mouth as you sink down on top of him, and you rest your forehead against his, sighing softly.

Pope nips your bottom lip, and rolls you both over again so that he’s on top.

“Fuck me,” you beg, and he hushes you, taking your wrists and pinning them above your head. He grunts as he pushes in, his weight over top of you turning you on even more. You breathe his name, feeling his cock bury deep inside of you, working to satisfy the ache you’d had for him for the past three days. You hadn’t realized you had it this bad until the arousal hit you, eradicating every effort not to give in to the hitman.

He clasps your hands tight, and his warm breath sends shivers through you. It’s as if the two of you know one another in every sense but corporeal, and are just learning that too. 

“I’m close,” you gasp, grinding your hips down as you very nearly cry out your pleasure. He keeps your body restrained, never relenting his thrusting. He goes faster, kissing down your neck as he fucks you. He moves his hands from his wrist to grab your hair, pulling it back. Your head hits the floorboards and you moan, craving more as your orgasm builds, igniting in your lower body and threatening to spread. He tugs harder, fucking you deep, and you cry out, screaming his name as you coat his cock. You see stars as pieces of your vision black out– you’d never felt so lightheaded. 

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he growls, “That’s it right there.” You feel him finish too, filling you up. You wrap your legs, which had been braced on either side of him, around his back as he lets himself relax over top of you. He lifts his head, blood streaks down his face. You blink up at him, eyes as hooded as his as he speaks in a low, fucked out rasp. “Thought you’d be a lot louder in bed.“

You smile hazily up at him, comebacks swimming around in your head, then you pass out. Pope frowns, gets off of you, and checks your body for wounds.

You’d been stabbed.

—

Your eyes open on a dusty car window, forehead pressed to it as grassy scenery blurs by. You lean away from it, rubbing your head. Pope is driving, down the road you came out to the cabin on.

“We gonna pretend that didn’t happen?” you finally ask, voice weak. 

“Oh, it happened.” 

"Pierce?” you manage out. Pope doesn’t take his eyes off the road.

“Burned the house down with him in it." 

"So. A forest fire.”

“Made sure it didn’t catch before we left. Can’t have cops crawling all over the place.”

“How long have I been out?” He doesn’t answer. You sigh. “What about the dope?”

“Also burning with him.”

You huff a laugh, wincing at the pain in your side. “Worth a try. Ah…”

“How’s your wound, kid?” he asks. His voice is a lot softer than when you two had been driving out this way.

“Hurts like a… ow, like a bitch.”

“That’s what you get.”

“What?”

“For deviating from the plan.”

“Fuck your plan. Mine was better.” 

“Quiet.” He just turns back to the road. “Let the drive rock you to sleep.” He turns up the country blues, and you thunk your head against the window again, smiling.

—

“You did it. You really did it, son of a bitch, I can’t believe it.”

You watch Lane pace around the small room, wincing at the pain from your rib cage. “You sent me on this job expecting me to bite it, didn’t you?”

“Is it that obvious?” Lane just smiles. He looks down at your bound wound. “Oh, I just didn’t think you’d get to Pierce, didn’t expect you to die or anything. But he’s dead.” He looks at some photographs he’d had a contact drop off to him from the coroner’s. “Very dead. And now… well, I know you’re gonna be fine wherever you go next.”

You don’t think you’ve heard him right. “You’re firing me from the business I started?” you mutter. “You’re… you’re actually firing me, after I took out our competition?! And almost DIED?!”

Lane seems confused. “Did he not tell you?”

“Did who not tell me what?!” you demand.

Lane swears under his breath. “Damn cryptic bastard. Just, go get some rest. Come back tomorrow for some cash from a few deals, and we’ll figure this whole thing out.” You stare up at him defiantly, until he insists. “Go!” 

You stuff your hands in your pockets, and leave the tiny office. You walk home through the dark, and when you get there, you check behind you as you always do before entering your low-cost apartment. Stepping over a couple of things, you toss your keys on the table, and take off your jacket. 

“Hey.” You whip around, clutching your chest. Pope is sitting on your couch. You don’t even question how he got in. He lifts his chin. “I wanted to congratulate you.”

“On what?” you huff, “Surviving?” You tilt your head, heading to your kitchen to start making dinner. “At that, I am very talented.”

“You have lotsa other talents too,” he says, and purses his lips, considering this. “And I don’t just mean between your legs, though that was an experience in itself.”

“What the hell are you doing in my apartment?” you ask, gesturing to him with a spatula. Your face softens as you consider what he’d done for you– driving you back and all, making sure you got to a good safe doctor. Still. He didn’t make that job very easy. Pope tilts his head.

“I want you to work with me." 

You nearly drop the utensil. Setting your cooking things down, you wipe your hands, and walk out to face him in your dark living room. He looks up at you in proposition, hands folded in his lap with that completely tranquil expression.

"Was this hit a _training_ job?”

He doesn’t bat an eyelash in answering. “Do I look like a fucking mentor?”

“I don’t know, you tell me!”

He shakes his head. “I spent nearly the whole time refusing the whole idea. When you killed the man, it got me thinking. Then we had sex.”

“Interrupted the thought process, did I?”

“I can’t say that I mind.”

You scoff. “Pope. You work alone.”

“Yeah. So do you.” He sighs, looking out your window for a time. Then his eyes roll back to you. “The last 24 hours were the hardest of my life, trying to figure out where the hell I go from here. And that’s sayin’ a lot– I’ve been through some shit. After thinking for a while, I thought of something my grandfather told me.” You sit down opposite him on your floor, crossing your legs. He sits forward. “He told me about a man who only lived off what he needed. The only thing that made him happy was the pleasure he derived from what he did, nothing else. He never wanted anything. But that’s a good thing, I said. Only needing what you need, never wanting anything more. But then he told me that when the man died, Death told him he could bring one thing along. Just one. He asked the man: “What do you want?” The man couldn’t think of anything. See… he never let himself want anything, so he never really lived for anything.” He pushes up his glasses. “(y/n). I don’t need you. I want you." 

You’re speechless. He sits forward, and watches you for a long time. "What are you gonna do staying here? Let’s face it, you’re a fiend, kid. As honest as your work is, you still gotta live under the radar like me. Use your skill set. Get better. Just don’t die doing it, cause I do funerals by fire, I ain’t sentimental.”

“Says the man who just bared his soul to me in a fable your fucking grandfather supposedly told you.”

His mouth quirks up. “It was merely a conclusion I came to after sitting on my porch, spinning… what was it? Solitary Man, with some whiskey, and scraping my boots.” 

You laugh, thinking back to that. You run a hand through your hair in thought, wincing again at the pain in your side. You’ve always gone with your gut… so you nod. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?" 

"Yeah.” You nod, shaking his hand in partnership. He gets up, and kisses you on the forehead, handing you one of your blankets from a pile beside him.

“Get out of the kitchen,” he murmurs, “I don’t wanna die of food poisoning after everything." 

"If you cook pasta half as good as you kill…” you sigh, then pause. “Y'know… I’ve never actually seen you kill anyone.”

“What?’

"Like, myself. I’ve never witnessed it myself, only heard the stories.”

“The stories are enough, (y/n).”

“I’m not convinced." 

You hear the spatula whack the pan a little harder than it should. "Don’t start.”

You smile, sitting down on your couch. Just outside on the balcony, you can see the stars, and you think of all the shapeshifters you didn’t get to see out there in the woods this week. Maybe now, in an oxymoronic partnership of working independently together, the two of you could pretend a little less… and find something you didn’t know you’d been looking for. 


End file.
